


The Aetiology of a Marriage Crisis and its Remedy

by Namesonboats (Viken2592)



Category: Bridgerton (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Author notes at the end, Consent, Drama, F/M, Medical Conditions, Mentions of child neglect, Minor Character Death, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:01:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29182953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viken2592/pseuds/Namesonboats
Summary: Daphne confronts Simon about his behavior in the marriage-bed, and he reveals that he is unwilling to sire an heir. Bereft of her wish for a family, Daphne crumbles under a mild depression. After receiving sad news from the village, she initiates an investigation that comes to change her relationship to the Duchy, the Duke, and ultimately herself.
Relationships: Daphne Bridgerton/Simon Basset
Comments: 48
Kudos: 276





	The Aetiology of a Marriage Crisis and its Remedy

**Author's Note:**

> Aetiology: the cause, set of causes, or manner of causation of a disease or condition.
> 
> This fic is mainly a rewrite from S1 ep. 6 and onwards. I have made changes to the events of scenes, as well as omitted a few scenes. 
> 
> English is not my first language. All mistakes are my own.

Simon’s lips rove the skin under Daphne’s ear, his breath is hot on her neck. She wants to give in to her desire, but earlier this morning, she spoke to her maid about how babies are made, and ever since, a question burns in her head.

“Simon…”

He lowers his hand to palm her breast over the soft fabric of her chemise. Her treacherous knees go weak. Before she married, she never fathomed how his hands could light her up like a torch inside.

He presses his hips to her, his arousal evident, and moans into the crook of her neck. Her insides turn molten. Still, the question screams to be asked...

“Wait. Simon, please.”

She grabs his shoulders and gently pushes him. He retreats, a befuddled expression on his face and eyes lust-fogged. Daphne wipes a strand of hair from her chin.

Outside the windowpanes, the moon shines a pale beam onto the silk canopy of their bed, and a log crumbles in the flames of the open crate. 

“I want to understand,” Daphne says with heated cheeks. “Why is it that every time we”-- _God, will I ever find an appropriate expression?_ \--“engage in marital activities, you leave me, at the last moment. Before you--”

Simon inhales and straightens his back in an expression of reluctance. Daphne goes hot from disquiet. It was impertinent to ask, but she must know—no more beating around the bush.

“Tell me honestly: _are_ you unable to have children, or do you not _want_ to have them?”

Simon presses his lips, those sensuous lips that she loves, to a line.

“I swore a long time ago that I would never have children.”

She blinks. A taste of acid rises in her mouth.

“I do not understand. Why?”

When he doesn’t reply, a veritable storm of accusations wreak havoc in her mind. _You lied to me._

She wants to hit him.

He betrays his vow to her! A family is all she dreams of, and he denies it to her; he denies her happiness and meaning!

A sting of self-doubt replaces her ire. _Perhaps he doesn’t want to have a child with me_ , a thought whispers inside.

Her thoughts go still at the thought of his mother’s portrait; his mother, who died when he was born. The tightness in Daphne’s chest loosens.

Could it be?

“Are you afraid that, because of your mother… The same thing will happen to me?”

He takes one long stride to embrace her. The smooth fabric of his shirt, open to reveal his chest, presses against her cheek. She closes her eyes when he kisses her on the forehead.

“Please, don’t speak of it,” he mumbles into her hair. “I couldn’t bear it.”

A burst of relief courses through her veins and drowns the heat of disappointment. He cares for her! Of course, he’s afraid, but they can overcome the fright.

She peels from his embrace and tilts her head to look him in the eye.

“I know these things are far too common, but we have--”

“That’s not the reason why, although I’ve added it to my concerns.”

Daphne’s heart slides down her stomach.

“Then why? Please, tell me!”

Simon turns to face the crate and leans his forearms to the back of a chair. In strained words, he tells her of his father's neglect and his promise never to sire an heir, to end his father’s line with him.

For every word he utters, Daphne’s insides tighten until her guts are nothing but hard ropes. She wants to scream and cry.

Again, an image silences Daphne’s thoughts. Unwillingly, she imagines a boy who never came to know his mother, rejected by his father. Why?

That hurt little boy was never allowed to heal. He stands in front of her in the body of a man, her husband, illuminated by the orange flames that send shadows over his face. He radiates the pain of an abandoned child.

She wills her tears to subdue, yet her voice shakes.

“I’m sorry for what your father did to you, but it doesn’t make it right to refuse to have children! Nor to lie!”

“I was prepared to die on that dueling field,” he says, “rather than marrying you and taking your dream away. You were the one who insisted on this union, knowing that I cannot give you children. I did not lie!”

Her heart sinks the sight of his controlled breath and the small beads of sweat that form on his temples. He withholds rage and agony, and her words do nothing to ease his torment.

“Simon, please.” She takes a step closer. Oh, she hates the pleading whine to her voice! “You are allowing your hatred for your father to triumph over our marriage.”

Desperation grows in her. She reaches for him and lifts her hands to his arms.

“A child would be a blessing! Be close with me tonight, don’t withdraw like--”

“No.” He pulls her hands from him. “This cannot happen. I will not have children. If it means we must live married in name only, then so be it.”

The shock spreads like lightning in her veins. She never fathomed that his hatred ran so deep. Face twisted in a sob, she runs to her room. She plants her face in the pillow to hide her tears.

She finds it hard to sleep that night.

* * *

With her arms full of linen, Rose enters the Duchess’s room but stops at the sight of her mistress in the bed. Daphne wakes, for a moment blessedly void of thoughts. As soon as she opens her eyes, the conversation between her and the Duke floods her mind and her tears return.

“Your Grace, I apologise!” Rose says, “I didn’t realize you were here.”

“It’s alright, Rose.” Daphne sits and blinks against the burn in her eyes. “The honeymoon cannot continue forever, can it?”

Rose does not smile at her mistress’ poor attempt to sound casual. She curtseys, places the linen inside the cupboard by the wall, and leaves.

Daphne sighs and plants her face in her hands. Outside the windows, the sun climbs above the grassed fields in a promise of a lovely day--in contrast to the maudlin climate in her heart.

With a curt knock, Rose enters again. Daphne frowns. What is it now?

“I’m sorry, your Grace, but there is a letter from your brother.”

Daphne pulls the cover from her and reaches for the letter in Rose's hands. The paper rustles as she breaks the seal, opens it, and reads Anthony’s neat handwriting.

_Oh no._

When she reaches the end of the letter, she calls for Rose to pack her things.

* * *

Daphne glances at her husband in the carriage as they travel toward Bridgerton House. The wheels crunch the cobbles of London’s streets, and the clip-clop of hooves lulls her in a deceivingly calm state. Simon meets her gaze; she promptly peers out of the carriage window with a flash through her guts. The gray of the residential buildings outside meets the blue of her eyes.

Daphne refuses to accept defeat. Her husband must see reason. Despite the unfortunate circumstances of their betrothal, he once confessed his love for her to Her Majesty herself. He cannot hold on to hate; they will be happy, surely, when he lets go of his bitterness for his father’s neglect.

Her anger and sadness are too great; they have not yet spoken as they near the gates of her former home.

When Simon announces that he will drop her off with her family and continue to arrange Hastings House, Daphne is unsure what is greatest; her relief or her disappointment. Her family will wonder why he is not with her when she needs to extend her support to Colin. Indeed they will surmise, from the distance between them, that their marriage is unhappy.

Luckily, her mother and siblings accept her explanation why the Duke could not join them, too rapt up in the scandal to take much notice in the way Daphne’s smiles do not reach her eyes.

Later that same day, Daphne chaperones the meeting between Colin and Miss Marina Thompson. She is prepared to hold nothing but contempt for the woman who wished to entrap her brother in a false marriage. When Miss Thompson leaves, her cheeks stained by tears, Daphne is--to her surprise--filled with compassion.

Had Daphne been in Miss Thompson’s shoes, had she done the same? She has no answer to that question, and with that realisation, she falls asleep in her room at Hastings House. Before she closes her eyes, her last thoughts go to the Duke, whom she hasn’t met that day since he left her at Bridgerton house.

The next day, the Duke and Duchess of Hastings attend the garden luncheon, where the Featheringtons, to everyone’s embarrassment and awe, are thrown out by order from the Queen herself.

Cressida Copwer sneers in her usual high-in-the-instep manner, and Daphne cannot contain a sharp protest. She leaves with a hot streak of resentment in her guts and fails to notice the long, admiring gaze her husband sends her as she storms off.

That night, she meets with Miss Thompson and promises to help her. They must find Sir George and tell him of the child.

* * *

Daphne carefully raps the door of her husband’s room and twists the knob. Inside, Simon holds a red-stained piece of gauze in his hand. His temple glistens from a bloodied wound.

“It seems I became a little too rough training with Will,” he says.

She steps inside, places the letter to General Langham on the bed, and rounds it.

“Let me. With four brothers, you cannot imagine the nasty cuts I’ve tended to over the years.”

He silently accepts and hands her the gauze.

She soaks a clean strip in the antiseptic liquid and dabs it to his wound. He sucks in air through his teeth but soon relaxes. His jaw remains set when he lifts a scrutinizing gaze to her eyes in a way that breaks her concentration.

“Was there something you wished to ask, your Grace?” he says softly. A wave of warmth rolls through her at the amber tinge in his eye.

“Yes. I’ve come to ask you to sign a letter for General Langham.”

She tells him of the soldier believed to be the father of Miss Thompson’s child. Of how she surmises that the General is not the kind of man who would heed to a request for help by a woman, even if she is a Duchess.

Daphne dabs the last of the remaining blood drops from Simon’s eyebrow.

“There,” she says, filled with gentle care. “You shan’t have a scar, but it will sting for a day or two. You need to be more careful,” she adds in a whisper, taken by the softness of the moment.

He stares at her with a hint of a smile that has her go hot all over. That look in his eyes, it must be affection, or is she a fool to think--

Simon lifts a hand and pulls her to his lap. He caresses her cheek, and she leans into it, drinks his touch as if it were sweet wine. They meet in a kiss and Daphne part her lips to allow their tongues to slide together. Her core melts at how his breath leaves his nostrils in a forceful exhale.

His hands on her waist harden. Pulled back to reality, she breaks the kiss. He pushes her from his lap, not harshly, but the separation of their bodies leaves a wound in her heart.

“Forgive me,” he rasps. “I shouldn’t encourage further intimacy between us. My refusal to have children withstands. I will sign your letter, but it is best if we don’t spend much time alone.”

If she has words, they drown in the sorrow and hurt pride that wells in her. To disallow him from seeing her tears, she storms out of the room to be alone with her agony.

* * *

The night after, they go to the Queen’s concert.

In the balcony reserved for the Duke and Duchess, Simon reaches for her hand, enclosed in its silk glove, with the pearled ring on her finger.

The music of the orchestra, the crowd, everything around them fades to background noise.

Is he extending an olive branch? Does he regret his harsh words from the night before?

A sudden cramp tugs at her lower abdomen. Daphne goes hot and cold.

Her courses.

Not caring for the glances that shoot up to their place from the crowd, she leaves in haste to find privacy. Well inside a dressing room, she rips sheets of napkins from a stand and lifts her skirts to place them between her legs. Although she knows, how could it be anything but the sign that she will not be a mother, not now, not ever? She peeks at the blood-stained paper.

The sobs burst from her throat. She lets the flood of tears loose.

She is not enough; her love is not enough. She will live the rest of her life in pretense when she wants sincerity, in distance when she wants closeness, alone when she wants togetherness.

* * *

The Duke and Duchess return to Clyvedon, where Simon disappears into his study, and Daphne’s things are moved to her room. They continue to have supper together, but after a few nights in agonizing silence, she can’t put up with the charade and orders the servants to bring supper to her chambers.

As the Duchess, she is expected to establish her credit in high society, hold a ball, visit the worthies of the villagers, and reply to a heap of letters from members of London's haut ton who wish to keep on the Duchess’s good side. She can’t bear the thought of socializing.

The estate needs her care; Mrs. Colson reminds her of the need for new equipment for the cook and the yearly restock of the cellars for wine and brandy, but Daphne excuses herself and retires to her room with a headache.

She receives a letter from her mother that speaks of her worry, but Daphne replies in short words that she is fine, merely fatigued. Her withdrawal is sure to be interpreted as a prolonged honeymoon, a breach in etiquette that will make her the object of the latest on dit gossip by Lady Whistledown, but Daphne doesn’t care a groat.

Another letter from Eloise follows; Daphne is shocked to learn of the rumors that Miss Thompson has attempted abortion. It is apparent that Daphne’s attempt to contact General Langham bore no fruit; she has failed, again.

The pearly white of the estate’s walls, the frescoes, and the decorative stucco that left her breathless as they arrived blind her. The nursery is worst of all; she slams the doors to the delicately furnished room and runs outside for the stables. Although not dressed for riding, which is made clear from the stable boy, who, in utter confusion prepares her mare, Daphne takes the reins, mounts the horse, and spurs it to a light canter past the lake and towards the glen.

After an hour, where she whipped the horse to gallop over the hills and back in an arch to the estate, she can breathe again. She and the mare return, both panting, her ungloved hands stinging from the reins.

“Daphne!”

She breaks from her dream-like state at the voice of her husband. His face is hard with anger as he gestures for the stable boy to take the horse for a walk to cool her. Daphne is too exhausted to protest but lets her husband grab her by the waist to reach the ground.

“Are you mad?” He says. “You are not wearing proper clothing; let me see your hands.” His nostrils flare. “Look at them. You could have fallen! Why--”

Simon squints at the sight of the horse that obediently follows the stable boy towards the stables.

“Did you use a man’s saddle?”

Daphne swallows in humiliation. On an impulse, she rejected her usual side-saddle, driven by a need to fly. Only by straddling the horse could she achieve the speed she needed to escape her thoughts.

To her surprise, a glint of a smile appears in Simon’s eyes. Was she crazy, or did he look at her in admiration? He should chastise her; it was not fitting for a lady to ride on a man’s saddle. Ah, there it was, the proper expression of disquiet in his face.

“It was still foolish. You could have hurt yourself. I forbid you to ride until you’ve come to your senses.”

Daphne narrows her eyes. Forbid her? Impossible, infuriating man…

She wants to scream at him, to strike her fists into his chest, but she’s too aware of the dirt on her calves and the way her hair is unkempt from the ride. She rushes off back into the house to find Rose.

* * *

Despite her frustration at how the Duke commandeered her not to ride, Daphne avoids the stables the next days. Her thighs ache, and Rose chastises her for the marks in her hands. She thinks back on her wild flight on the horse with a cold shiver down her spine.

She takes long walks around the estate grounds, unwilling to visit the village after her blunder with the pigs. She spends time listening to the rustle of leaves in the wind and the curious quack-like warble of the woodcock that nests by the lake.

Nature is too serene for her; Daphne returns to the pianoforte. She places her fingers to the keys and tentatively plays a song in tune with the storm inside her. One night, when the rain whips against the window panes in pulsating flushes and thunder rumbles in the distance, she finishes the piece. After controlling that all doors are closed, and no servants are near, she plays.

It’s not a song fit for a lady. It’s wild and sad and fierce.

Daphne closes her eyes and plays, unaware of her husband, who slips inside and silently saunters closer. When she opens her eyes, he rests but a few steps from the pianoforte. She rips her hands from the keys and stands; the interrupted notes echo in the chamber.

“Please don’t stop,” he says, but she rushes past him. “It was beautiful--”

She cuts his words off by slamming the door.

* * *

Daphne wakes the next morning by Rose. The storm has moved on, and the sun peeks through bulky layers of clouds. As the haze of sleep leaves her, Daphne notices a red tinge in Roses’ eyes. She asks if everything is alright.

“Yes, your Grace,” Rose replies, “would you like strawberry or apricot jam this morning?”

“Rose.” Daphne stands and pulls a gown over her chemise. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

Rose sniffles.

“Do you remember the woman from the village, the one with the little girl who ran into your arms, your Grace? She died yesterday night, while in laying-in.”

The blood in Daphne’s head rushes to her feet. She sits on the edge of her bed.

“Oh, no.”

She bursts into tears. In a moment of shared grief, Rose ignores custom and sits by her in an embrace.

Daphne soon regains countenance. She’s emotionally drained from her failed marriage and the news of the mother, but she needs to act her role.

“We must send the family support. The widower--”

“Oh, your Grace, there are so many unfortunate families in the parish. So many mother- and fatherless children. If you were to send them all support, you’d have nothing else to do.”

Daphne’s tears dry in an instant. She blinks.

“Truly?”

“Yes, your Grace, unfortunately so. The orphanage in --town is practically full.”

Daphne stares onto the floorboards. Her maid scrutinizes her face in an attempt to guess her thoughts.

“Your Grace?”

“Send the family a donation for the funeral, at least, and call to ready the barouche. I wish to visit the vicar.”

Rose nods and rises to leave. Daphne holds her hand a moment longer.

“Rose, please do not mention to the other servants of my reaction. I wouldn’t wish the Duke to--”

She closes her mouth. She wouldn’t want the Duke to be reminded of another mother dead in childbirth but can’t speak the words out loud.

“As you wish, your Grace.”

* * *

Later that night, Daphne returns to Clyvedon, filled with worry.

The vicar told her there are no records of maternal deaths in the parish, but “it was always a great loss to the community.” With a chill, Daphne realized that such estimates were not made as it would cast a shadow over the Duke’s abilities as caretaker of his tenants.

She did not command the vicar to keep count, as it would require a recommendation from her husband, and she was not sure he’d comply. Instead, she asked of the parish doctor and learned that there was but one general practitioner, Mr. Smith, who functioned as surgeon and apothecary to more or less the entire county. The midwife in the parish was untrained in any medical school.

This would not do.

Daphne sits by her dressing-table and writes a letter to her mother. She needs to return to London.

* * *

The early October sun casts its bleak rays over the Duchess’ face as she travels over the London streets towards Southward. The little season has begun, and the ton of the Town gathers in the parks on sunny days or enjoys a visit to the Vauxhall Gardens.

She will do none of the sorts. As soon as she greeted her mother at Bridgerton House and assured her family that she was well and in Town on business matters regarding the Duchy, she ordered the family gig to be brought out and instructed the driver to take her to Guy’s hospital. Dr. Carter, dean of Guy’s medical school, has agreed to meet her.

During the drive, her thoughts linger on her husband. He didn’t make a Cheltenham tragedy out of her trip to London without him but accepted, with a silent gaze and stiffness to his jaw, her assertion that she wished to see her mother.

Perhaps he thought he could not deny her the comfort of motherly care as he had declared their marriage dead. Perhaps, since they did not share the marital bed, he was pleased with her temporary absence as it would provide him with ample opportunity to visit some light skirt in --town.

Daphne slams her fist into the seat and ignores the side glance from the driver. She can’t bear the thought of Simon with another woman. Her mind fills with unwanted images that rip a wound in her heart. She has to squeeze her eyes shut and forcibly open them again to return to reality.

The gig arrives at the campus, where the horses’ hooves clatter against the stone to halt by the entrance gates. The three main buildings of the complex form a u that opens to a square where medicine students amble to lectures and grey doves coo on the window sills.

Dr. Carter is a stout man with a crown of grey strands on his head and eyes that peer through half-moon spectacles. He bows in a courteous “your Grace” and offers her to follow him through the doors of the nearest building. Young medicine students cast curious glances at them as they continue through the corridors to Dr. Carter’s office. Daphne is glad she shunned any attempt to appear in the first stare of fashion that morning but dressed in a practical day-dress with petticoats and a blue Spencer jacket.

“They all wonder the same thing, Your Grace!” the doctor says and offers her a seat. A great walnut desk dominates his office, and the many books on their shelves draw her attention. She lingers her gaze on a dissertation with the title _Treatise on the Theory and Practice of Midwifery_.

“What might that be?” she implores.

“If you are here to donate to the school, of course. Studies in medicine are expensive, due to the many instruments and objects needed to perform adequate lessons.”

“A most reasonable speculation.” Daphne offers a curt smile to indicate that she can make no promises of donations to the hospital. “Dr. Carter, as I stated in my letter, my primary reason for this visit is information. As a Duchess, I have a responsibility for the well-being of our tenants. Economic matters are those of my husband’s, but I take it as my duty to see that health matters are in order... Especially matters that pertain to children and mothers.”

“Ah.” The doctor places his elbows on the desk and interlaces his fingers. “And what information do you need, your Grace?”

During Daphne’s interrogation of the rates of mothers dying in their lying-ins, as well as of common ailments among children, she does her best to ignore the blush that creeps up her neck. She stumbles on certain expressions, unsure if they are correct, and regrets that she never lifted a book on medicine in her life.

She should have brought Eloise. Her sister would have performed this visit with more grace.

When Daphne asks what can be done to better the health situation for women, Dr. Carter purses his lips with a shake to his head.

“Here at Guy’s, we have the best hospital in the world with the finest physicians, yet the rates of mothers who die in childbirth here are similar to that in rural parishes.” He adjusts his glasses. “Some women are simply not fit to be mothers, and the medical profession is yet privy as to why.”

“How many women?”

“Roughly one in five, your Grace.”

Daphne’s stomach lurches. So many?

The doctor scrutinizes her with a silent gaze.

“Perhaps, your Grace,” he says, “your search for information has more personal reasons than caring for the souls of the Duchy? Let me assure you that you have nothing to worry about. If I remember correctly, your mother has given birth to many strong babies without complications, has she not?”

Daphne dips her chin with a tight-lipped smile and internally screams how her mother nearly died giving birth to Hyacinth. Dr. Carter has given her fewer answers than the vicar; her visit to Guy’s is useless. Could it be that this man, the most distinguished doctor in London, knew so little on how to repress numbers of maternal deaths?

She may be a Duchess, but in these antiseptic-smelling corridors filled with books and students, she has little power. As she prepares to utter her thank you’s and good bye’s, the doctor heaves his chest in an inhale and leans back in his chair.

“If your Grace wishes, she could always seek more information at Edinburgh hospital. Apparently, a practitioner there claims that we, the medical profession, play a part in maternal mortality rates. Preposterous, if you ask me! We, who do our utmost to help! I marvel that the man is still allowed to practise medicine.”

Daphne holds a neutral face. Her pulse speeds in her veins.

“What is the name of this practitioner, doctor?”

“His name is Gordon. Please, your Grace, do not take my suggestion seriously. That man is the laughing-stock of the medical profession in the entire Kingdom.”

“I see.” Daphne stands. “I thank you for your time, Dr. Carter. I am most reassured.”

The man follows her back to the gig and greets her adieu with a disinterested bow. As soon as she arrives at Bridgerton house, she writes another letter addressed to Edinburgh Hospital.

* * *

For two weeks, she waits for a response. She returns to Clyvedon and rekindles her interest in the welfare of the estate. The cook receives funds for new utensils, a carpenter arrives to give measures for a redecoration of her boudoir. She sends a carriage of provisions to the orphanage but refrains from visiting in person, afraid that the sight of the children will be too much for her.

She occupies her mind with thoughts on the conversation with Dr. Carter. Rose must sometimes call her mistress twice to gain her attention, and Daphne apologises for her wool-gathering.

She meets with the Duke. They share breakfasts, in silence, apart from the usual pleasantries of ‘how are you, your Grace,’ but it’s not an unpleasant silence. She aches for him, but her quest to understand maternal health had placed a damper on the pain, like a warm blanket can soothe sore feet.

Daphne discovers she much likes to promenade in the kitchen gardens, surrounded by the scents of lavender, thyme, and mushroom that grow in the grass of the nearby meadow. During nights, she observes her reflection in the mirror and decides that her parted fringe makes her look like a chit ready for her first season; she must have a new style.

She feels lost at sea and yet high in anticipation, like a bird ready to fly for the first time.

One morning, a cart arrives, and Daphne runs outside with certainty that there will be a letter for her. She is right. She rushes to her chamber to read with trembling hands.

Mr. Gordon thanks her for her interest in his theories and accepts her invitation to Clyvedon. His writing bears an air of delighted surprise that an English Duchess should take an interest in his work as a surgeon. He promises to arrive in Hastings in a week.

Daphne lifts her gaze from the letter. A week from today, the Duke will leave for --cottage to hunt with her brothers. She can’t lie to him about Mr. Gordon’s visit, but she needn't tell him the entire truth.

She joins him at supper that night, which has the servants flitting about nervously to place her plate and fill her glass.

“I shall have a guest while you are gone, your Grace,” Daphne says casually and cuts at her quail. “It is a medical practitioner from Edinburgh. With your permission, I wish to persuade him to move his clinic to the parish.”

“Is the service of old Mr. Smith not satisfactory?”

Daphne puts the cutlery on her plate with a clink.

“Mr. Smith has no formal medical training, your Grace. And he serves nearly the entire county. I believe that it is our duty to secure the medical needs of our tenants.”

The Duke lifts his glass of nettle wine.

“Indeed. But why a practitioner all the way from Scotland?”

Daphne goes hot.

“He was highly recommended by my family’s physician. Apparently, the Edinburgh hospital is an excellent medical school, although not as prestigious as Guy’s.”

She takes a sip of her wine to avoid looking him in the eye but senses his lingering gaze.

“Very well,” he says after a few heartbeats of silence, “who else?”

She blinks. “Your Grace?”

“You are not to entertain a sole male guest in our estate while I am gone, _your Grace_.”

Daphne turns so hot she imagines the roots of her hair crackle. _Gods, how could I be so stupid. Think, think…_

“I have invited Eloise as well. She has expressed a wish to spend some time in the country.”

The Duke remains still like a statue. She holds her breath until he places the glass back onto the table with a near indiscernible nod. With that, the supper returns to its usual painstakingly silent demeanor. As soon as she can, without it being too obvious, Daphne rushes to write a letter to her sister.

* * *

Mr. Gordon is a young man, no more than twenty-five, with handsome dreadlocks and a kind gaze that wanders along the façade of Clyvedon estate in admiration. Although dressed as a gentleman with dark pantaloons and a fashionable Weston coat, his waistcoat lacks a button, and a dot of purple ink stains his cravat.

Daphne welcomes him with Eloise, who, to her great relief, agreed to come and visit. Mrs. Colson stutters when Daphne asks her to show Mr. Gordon his room and serve them mackerel and lamb for dinner.

“Is there something wrong?” Daphne asks.

“Your Grace,” Mrs. Colson says with a blush in embarrassment. “Doctors may dine with the ladyships, but Mr. Gordon is not a doctor yet. He may eat with the servants.”

“Nonsense!” Daphne says with a frown. “Mr. Gordon is my esteemed guest! He may not be a doctor yet, but he will be very soon. Come, Mr. Gordon, you must be tired after your trip. Mrs. Colson, please serve us tea in the pink sitting room.”

Eloise sends her a look in admiration. Mrs. Colson curtsies, and they all follow Daphne inside the parlour.

Mr. Gordon splutters words of gratitude in his pleasant Scottish accent.

“It is exceedingly kind of you, your Grace, to invite me. You mustn't make too much trouble for me, I’m afraid I can’t stay long.”

Daphne stops; Eloise bumps into her with an ‘oh!’.

“Why, you must stay at least a fortnight, Mr. Gordon! We have so much to discuss!”

He bows.

“A fortnight is well, your Grace. Forgive me for not staying longer, but I have a duty to my patients.”

A wave of approval rises in Daphne. This man is exactly what she is looking for.

* * *

During dinner, which Mrs. Colson arranges with a pointedness to her face, Daphne needn’t more than mention her concerns over the rates of maternal deaths in the parish for Mr. Gordon to speak of his experiences. He spills a morsel of his mackerel on the table.

“There are Four Horsemen of Death in maternal mortality in the Kingdom, your Grace. They are puerperal pyrexia, that is, childbed fever, haemorrhage, convulsions and... “

He goes silent with a rising blush.

“And what?” Eloise implores. “Please tell us, Mr. Gordon.”

“Oh, it’s not appropriate, I’m afraid…”

“Mr. Gordon,” Daphne says and nods to the servants to serve the wine, “we realise this topic might border on questions of morality, but it is above all a question of health. I assure you, there is no need to speak in milquetoast ways.”

Mr. Gordon sinks his gaze to the plate.

“Abortion, your Grace.”

A servant drops a utensil to the floor in a clatter.

Despite her little sermon on appropriateness, Daphne pales. She thinks of Miss Thompson.

Eloise nods in encouragement for Mr. Gordon to go on.

“As you stated in your letter,” he says to Daphne, “you are aware that my theory on the causes of puerperal pyrexia is not well received, to say the least…”

“What is your theory?” Eloise asks. She has not yet touched her food.

“Well,” he says and clears his throat. “It began when I practised as a surgeon in Aberdeen three years ago. An epidemic of puerperal pyrexia broke out in the ward. When I observed the outcomes, I came to the disagreeable conclusion that _I_ was the means of carrying the infection to many of the women.”

A silence falls. Neither of the sisters dares to breathe.

“I began to carefully fumigate, using carbolic soap, not only myself but also my instruments, and the rate of women in my care who died in childbirth fell. However, the rest of the doctors and nurses refused to follow my example. I was ultimately forced to leave the clinic. I began medical school in Edinburgh the winter after.”

Daphne listens with her ears pricked to not miss a syllable. This, she thought, is what this parish needs; what the whole Kingdom needs--this knowledge. This is what that bacon-brained doctor at Guy’s refuses to accept; that the high rates of women dying in childbirth is not natural but has human causes.

“Your Grace,” Mr. Gordon says and nearly topples his wine glass over. “Have you read the American poet Oliver Wendell-Holmes?”

Daphne shakes her head, but Eloise exclaims “I have!”

Mr. Gordon turns to her with an eager gleam in his eyes.

“Then you know that he is also a physician! _He_ believes that puerperal fever can be carried from doctors and nurses to patients, and he is equally vilified by the medical profession!”

Eloise slams her palm to the table; a servant jumps.

“I can’t believe it. Those dogmatic, ego-centric...”

“What about bleedings?”

Eloise and Mr. Gordon turn surprised gazes at Daphne, who takes a sip of wine.

“You mentioned haemorrhage, Mr. Gordon. What can be done about it?”

Mr. Gordon leans forward with such zeal he topples over his glass again. A servant yanks it from the table with mumbled prayer.

“We know that most excessive bleeding after delivery follows a poor contraction of the uterus, your Grace. My supervisor in Edinburgh, doctor Hart, has made successful attempts to encourage contraction by giving women tea with ergot seeds. This knowledge goes back to midwives of the 16th century, but it is only since last year it was used by the medical profession.”

“Fascinating!” Eloise says, her cheeks scarlet from the wine and from exhilaration. “This is the most rewarding conversation I’ve had in years!”

“Are you interested in the medical profession, Miss Bridgerton?” Mr. Gordon asks.

“Oh.” Eloise loses her smile and sinks back into her chaise. “Well, yes, but I’m a woman. I could never become a doctor.”

“Which is another dogmatism!” he says and seeks Daphne’s gaze. “If women could practise medicine on higher levels than nurses, lives would be saved! I can’t count how many patients I’ve had that have refused my aid because they believe it’s a moral wrong to expose their ailments to a man.”

Daphne listens to his tirade with a sinking feeling to her guts. To suggest that women could be doctors was a whole other matter than to discuss theories on how to help women from dying in childbirth.

Her thoughts go silent at the look on Eloise’s face and the sadness that radiates from her being. Eloise, who always has a book in her lap, who throughout her childhood has been restless and uninterested in the course staked out for her since birth…

A servant steps to Daphne’s side.

“Your Grace, should I serve the lamb?”

“Yes, please!” She turns to Mr. Gordon. “What do you say, another course? There will be fruit and pudding for dessert!”

* * *

After the evening tea, Mr. Gordon excuses himself, tired after the day’s travels. Daphne enjoys the warmth of the crackling fire in the grate and the twinkle of the stars outside the windows. Eloise nurses a cup of warm tea in her hands. Her eyes sparkle more radiant than any stars.

“I didn’t know such men as Mr. Gordon existed!” She says. “I’m so glad you invited me! It’s like I’ve been given a chance to peek through a door to another world! Think that the medical profession cannot take a morsel of criticism and examine their own part in why so many women die in laying-ins.”

Daphne nods with a forced smile.

“Perhaps that’s the problem,” Eloise murmurs, and Daphne sharpens her attention. “If it were men who gave birth to babies, do you think doctors would accept that they died in droves from issues that are preventable by”--she scoffs--”washing their hands!”

“I don’t know,” Daphne murmurs. The tea tastes ashen in her mouth.

“I wish I could do something,” Eloise says and wistfully gazes into the fire. “That I could change things. I would like to become a doctor. But I can’t.”

Daphne comes to a decision. Like her, Eloise was denied what she truly wished to be. As such, they broke with the expectations of society, albeit in different ways.

Things had to change. It was not fair that they should both be unhappy.

“You can.”

Eloise makes large eyes.

“What do you mean?”

The floor wobbles under Daphne’s feet as she opens her mouth to speak.

“If you really wish to become a doctor, I will pay for whatever medical studies you need. I will even, in due time, help you set up your own clinic. Anthony and mama may protest, but it does not matter. You could help so many women and children.”

Eloise gapes. She places the cup on the sideboard and rises to rush into her sister’s embrace.

“Oh, I love you, Daphne!”

Daphne holds her, knowing in her heart she’s made the right decision.

“And I love you, little sister.”

Eloise brushes a few escaped strands of hair from her face and grins with tears in her eyes.

“What will the Duke say?”

Daphne does a curt shake to her head to reassure her sister.

“I will speak to him as soon as he returns, but ultimately, his opinion doesn’t matter. He never accepted my dowry, and the money is mine to spend as I chuse.”

“Daphne…” Eloise tests the waters, and Daphne’s guts tighten anew. “How are you? Mama has hinted that you are unhappy. Is there anything I can do?”

“Don’t worry,” Daphne replies in her best attempt to veil her emotions, “I am well.”

Eloise reaches out to graze the locks by Daphne’s temples.

“You have changed since you married. Grown. I admire you.”

* * *

The day the Duke returns, the first frost of the year covers the reeds of the fields in a crisp glitter. Daphne greets him but returns to her boudoir to rehearse the speech she has prepared. Mr. Gordon and Eloise have both left, and Daphne finds herself missing her sister like she never thought she would.

The same morning, she received a letter from her mother that stated that Sir George Crane had died on the battlefield and that his brother Sir Phillip had asked Miss Thompson to marry him. Without Daphne’s inquiry to General Langham, Sir Phillip would never have known about Miss Thompson’s situation.

The Duke doesn’t join her for afternoon tea but stays in his study. With a pounding heart, Daphne raps on his door and carefully steps inside. The yellow light of the autumn sun falls over his features, and the sight has her insides melt. She clears her throat.

“Your Grace,” she says, “I trust your hunts were successful?”

“I told you they were when I arrived. Have you forgotten?”

Daphne pinches her eyes close. _Right. Damme._

He indicates to the documents in her hands.

“What are those?”

She strides to his desk and places the piece of paper on the surface.

“When we married, you refused my dowry and told me to use that money as I saw fit. I wish to use them to help my sister--Eloise--to begin medical studies at the Middlesex Hospital in London. Also”--she presses a fingertip on the document--“I wish to establish a permanent stipend for research into child mortality and women’s health at Edinburgh hospital.”

The Duke scrutinizes the document with an indecipherable expression. Daphne searches for clues to his thoughts. Will he protest?

“Your Grace,” she says in a low voice, “my sister’s wishes may be unconventional, but--”

“This stipend is established in the name of my mother.”

Daphne holds her breath.

The Duke places the document back onto the desk. He forces a breath through his nostrils.

“As much as I admire your sister’s ambition, I feel this has to do with us, and our… situation. Am I wrong? Tell me honestly: are you doing this for yourself?”

Dumbstruck by his question, Daphne grows cold.

As a member of aristocratic England, she was brought up with one cause; to further the fabric of society by marrying and birthing heirs. Put in a situation where this was not an option, she sought a different meaning for her existence. She sought to guarantee the welfare of people who benefited from her care.

Was she selfish for seeking other means of meaning to her life when he denied her what society dictated?

She swallows a lump in her throat.

“I have accepted,” she says slowly, her words hard, “that you have chosen to live for hate. I will never do the same. No child should suffer from preventable causes, and no mother should die in childbirth when there are ways to save her. I may not have your love”--her voice breaks--“but I have a title, money, I have power. I can use that power for something good.”

Anger rises in her and threatens to burst her seams. She must leave before she explodes, or worse, cries. She controls her expression and points to the proposal for a stipend in the memory of the former Duchess.

“The funds are mine, but the Hospital requires your signature. I ask you to consider my idea.”

She ignores the way he opens his mouth to speak, and leaves.

* * *

That night, Daphne sits by her drawer and combs her hair. Her mind lingers on the conversation with the Duke while she absentmindedly pulls the bore-hairs of the brush through her strands. She bangs it on her sitting table and exhales a silent curse.

Will she ever cease to wish for his esteem? They may be married only on paper, but in heart, she is as much his as she ever was. He does not know how to kill his hate for his father, and she has no clue how to kill her love for him.

At the sound of her door opening, she twists and faces the Duke who enters, coatless and without a cravat, a candelabra in hand.

She stands.

“Your Grace?”

What is he doing here? Her silent question dies in her throat at the look in his eyes, raw and naked. He places the candelabra on a sideboard and closes the door.

“Daphne.”

It is not only the way he says her name that has a frisson run along her arms but the way he softly roams his gaze along her body, covered in a thin shift, as if looking at someone he prized.

“You do have my love,” he says in a strangled voice. “More than you know. I didn’t think I could love you more when I married you, but I do. I love you more for each passing day. You have my undying respect.”

He takes a step closer.

“I’m afraid I don’t know how to be a good husband, nor a father, but I don’t wish to live separated from you anymore.”

Awed, Daphne thinks she must be dreaming, but no, dreams could never be as palpable as this. Weeks of invisible burdens fall from her shoulders. She breathes with a light feeling to her chest.

“Then don’t.”

She lifts her arms; they come together in an embrace. His scent welcomes her, his hands on her back. She leans her head on his shoulder, and he kisses her forehead. Her insides are light enough that she could float through the air.

“I’m sorry I have caused you pain,” he murmurs into her hair. “I have hated myself these past weeks for inflicting it, but I have struggled with ghosts. Please, forgive me.”

“You see,” he continues, “my father demanded perfection from me. But I was a child. For years, I didn’t speak. My words came out in a stutter, and it got worse whenever he was near. Because of this, he declared me an idiot and that he wanted nothing to do with me. I have hated him for such a long time.”

She goes cold. That was why the former Duke refused his son? That cruel, old addle pate...

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “For what he did to you. He may have had his title, and his lands, but he was impoverished because he did not have you. I’m sorry that I focused on my pain, my loss. I forgot about yours. Let’s be better, to ourselves, and to each other.”

“I am yours, Daphne. I have always been yours.”

She places a hand on his neck and pulls him into a kiss. His embrace around her tightens. With a caress to her cheek, he breaks the kiss. His eyes glitter from the lights of the candelabra.

“If we were to have a child…” His Adams’ apple bobs. “What happens to your plans?”

“Nothing. I would still have a responsibility to help others. To further knowledge.”

He smiles and flashes his white teeth. When he lowers his face to kiss her again, she places a hand on his chest. He frowns, still smiling.

“Actually,” she says, “I… would like to wait. Until we have children. I am but nineteen; we have plenty of time.”

“Well, I am not so young,” he says with a laugh.

“Oh shush,” she says and mirrors his grin, “you are not yet thirty. You know perfectly well men can have children until they are old.”

He nods and holds her close.

“Should we wait a year?”

“Yes, why not?” She shrugs. “Or two. Also… I do not wish to have more than three children. Is that acceptable to you?”

He nods in agreement.

She returns the smile, but the gravity of their conversation seeps through the layers of mirth, and tears threaten to cloud her eyesight.

She pulls him to her to hide her state, and he kisses her like he used to, hungrily, deeply, like nothing could come between them again.

“Daphne,” he whispers against her lips, breath short, “do you still want--”

“Yes. I want you. In all the ways possible.”

She unbuttons his shirt and backs towards the bed, coaxing him to follow. He pulls her shift from her shoulders and kisses along her clavicle to an exposed breast. When he climbs onto her on the bed and curves his neck to take her nipple between his lips, she moans, her head swirling in unbridled joy and want.

In a soft push, she climbs on top of him and removes his shirt to copy his way of kissing down her body. He breaths harshly and bucks his hips in a soft press against her stomach. His hard arousal is evident under his pantaloons; Daphne has an idea. He had, many times, pleasured her with his mouth. Could she do the same?

A sound of surprise escapes him when she glides to face the opening of his pants and fiddles with the button.

“I want to,” she says in a voice hoarse from lust, “will you let me?”

It’s immoral, they both know it, she’s acting like a proper demimondaine, but she doesn’t care. She loves him, she loves to love him, and nothing can bring her to feel wrong about this.

“It’s--” he says but throws his head back in a moan when she places open-mouthed kisses along his length under the fabric of his pants. It’s all the encouragement she needs; she pulls the garment from his hips and takes him in her hand. The silky feel fascinates her. She has no idea how to act, so she copies his methods and kisses him with a light touch to her tongue that, encouraged by his gasp, grows firmer.

When he sends her a look of unbridled lust, she encloses her lips around the head of his cock and slides further down while continuing the pressure of her tongue. His groan vibrates her heart. Following his reactions; gasps, moans, whispers of her name, the way he grasps the linen of the bed with his fist, she continues, bolder with each minute. She experiments with how far she can take him in, hollows her cheeks, and smiles at the whine that escapes him when she flutters her tongue by the head of his cock.

“Here,” he says, breathless, and grabs himself by the base. “Use your hand. Like this. Don’t stop.” He guides her and soon digs his head into the pillow with a strangled groan. His spend land on her bosom in three consecutive flows. She gasps, but her initial surprise melts into affection and pride. She had thought to cry had she ever seen him climax again, but the feeling that rises in her is that of the contrary; she can’t help but giggle.

He returns from his state and lifts his arm from his eyes. Twisting on the bed, he grabs a kerchief and wipes at her chest with a boyish smile. He is once again that little boy, but a happy one and they allow themselves a moment of childish mirth.

She allows him to drape his body over hers to meet her in a searing kiss.

“You are amazing,” he says and places his forehead to hers.

“Your Grace, I’ve been thinking,” she says matter-of-factly. “We ought to host a ball at Hasting’s house. Inviting Mr. Gordon will signal our approval of him to the haut ton.”

Simon lifts his head to meet her gaze with a wrinkle of curiosity between his eyes.

“Also,” she continues, “we should arrange a charity auction for the orphanage and a feast for the villagers!”

He laughs.

“I will be the proud host of your carousel of social events, my love. But first…”

She squeals when he lifts the hem of her shift and dives between her legs. Her laughter melts to a breathless moan.

* * *

**Author notes:**

My great-grandmother, who lived in the north of Sweden, died one month after giving birth to my grandfather. She slowly bled to death, stuck on an island far from the nearest hospital.

Ten days after my son’s birth, I was rushed into the hospital, hemorrhaging due to non-delivery of parts of the placenta. Had I been born a century ago, I would have most likely met the same fate as my great-grandmother. Maternal mortality seems far away, but it is closer than we think.

Information on the rates of maternal deaths in Regency England is conflicting. Some sources claim that one in five women died in childbirth, but according to Chamberlain (2006), there was no national counting of deaths until the _Registration of Deaths Act_ of 1837, apart from bills of mortality or parish registers. Maternal mortality rates were probably lower than one in five, but epidemics of infections sometimes occurred. 

The real Mr. Gordon (1752–1799), who inspired me to write Mr. Gordon in this fic, was a naval surgeon. He worked as a medical practitioner in Aberdeen, and because of his theories on the transfer of infections from doctors and nurses to women in childbirth, he was hounded from the clinic. Ultimately, it was the later work of Ignaz Semmelweis (1818–1865) at the Vienna Maternity Hospital who finally could show that simple hygiene such as washing hands saved a lot of women’s lives.

Guy’s hospital in London was the most prestigious medical school in England during the 19th century.

 _Treatise on the Theory and Practice of Midwifery_ by William Smellie was written in 1752-1764.

Oliver Wendell-Holmes (1809–1894) was an American physician and poet who also supported the theory that infections were transmitted from doctor to patient.

Barry Hart of Edinburgh Hospital advocated using ergot to prevent haemorrhage in postpartum women in 1912 (Chamberlain 2006, p. 562).

Elisabeth Garrett Anderson passed her medical exam in 1865 and became the first female doctor in England.

_Reference:_

Chamberlain G. (2006). British maternal mortality in the 19th and early 20th centuries. _Journal of the Royal Society of Medicine_ , _99_ (11), 559–563. https://doi.org/10.1258/jrsm.99.11.559.


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